Rimona lowered her shoulders. She slowly touched her upper lip with a fingertip, like a slow pupil working on a math problem. He bent over to see her tears. There were no tears. She seemed supremely concentrated, lost in thought. Her attentiveness had lapsed and wandered back to the music. It’s that radio, thought Yonatan. All that music has completely spaced her out. Ever so quietly she’s going out of her mind, or else she’s been a total halfwit all along and I just didn’t notice. She’s not even listening to me but to the music. It goes in one ear and out the other like the ticking of a clock or the sound of the rain in a drainpipe.

“Turn off that radio. I’m talking to you.”

Rimona turned it off. Irately, as if that were not enough, Yonatan yanked the plug from the socket. There was a moment’s silence. The rain outside had stopped. From the neighboring apartment came the sound of something falling, as if a tower of blocks had collapsed on the rug. The neighbors laughed.

“Listen, Rimona,” said Yonatan.

“Yes.”

“I guess I should start explaining, why and how and since when. That’s hard for me.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“No? You mean to tell me you’re so smart you don’t need any explanations?”

“Yonatan. Look. I don’t understand what’s the matter with you, but I don’t want you to start explaining. People always want to explain and understand, as if life were just a matter of explanations and solutions. When my father lay dying in the hospital of cancer, and I sat next to him all day without talking, just holding his hand, the doctor came by and said, ‘Young lady, if you’d care to step into my office for a few minutes, I’ll explain the situation to you,’ and I said, thank you, doctor, there’s no need to, and he must have thought I was either callous or an imbecile. And when I gave birth to Efrat and they told us she was stillborn, and Dr. Schillinger in Haifa wanted to explain it to us, you yourself, Yoni, said, ‘What is there to explain? She’s dead.’

“Rimona, please. Don’t bring that up now. Not that.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re all right,” said Yonatan uncertainly, his voice betraying a momentary wave of affection. “You’re just a strange girl.”

“It isn’t that, though,” said Rimona. She stared at him, and then, as if fathoming the tip of some obscure idea, she added, “It’s hard for you.”